Your Heart On My Sleeve
by jonghyundroppedthesoap
Summary: Everyone is born with their soulmate's first thoughts of them printed on their arm. With Sherlock unable to keep his thoughts to himself, it proves to be a straightforward first encounter. Or... so we hoped.


The words had haunted him since he was four. A few short sentences. Meaningless alone. But together, they were something John didn't really want to ponder.

'_Service haircut. Trained at Bart's. Psychosomatic Limp. Military man. Afghanistan or Iraq?'_

His parents hadn't bothered to tell him the meaning behind the script on his left arm. His father was missing half the time and his mother had simply warned him 'not to fucking bother.' Looking back, they hadn't been the best.

His sister, Harry, was alright though. She was a few years ahead of him at school, and as soon as she had found out what the words meant, she hadn't hesitated to tell him.

"Johnny, it's your soulmate!" she had yelled excitedly, shaking his shoulders frantically. "The words are what your soulmate thinks when they first see you. How cute is that?"

John had spent the next three weeks staring at his arm. He didn't understand most of the words, but it was comforting to know that there was someone out there just for him. That someday, he'd meet his soulmate, she'd think he was a military man, and then they'd live together happily ever after. He wondered what words were on his soulmate's arm. Hopefully something nice. Something poetic and enchanting. Because there was no doubt that as soon as he saw her, he'd think she was the most beautiful and beguiling woman in existence.

Years passed, and when John reached university, he began to wonder how much longer it would be before he met them. A few of his high school friends had found their soulmates during those horrid years, and while John wasn't particularly _desperate, _he couldn't help but feel envious. As he aged, the words on his arm began to make slightly more sense and they left a morbid feeling in John's gut. He'd been looking into the army recently for a change of lifestyle, and if he wanted to afford medical school, it was the most convenient option.

That was how he found himself packing his bags and heading off to Afghanistan as an army doctor two years later. _'Psychosomatic Limp_' stared up at him, foreboding, and he was cautious to keep his soul mark hidden from any onlooking soldiers. He didn't know what would happen here – if anything _would_ happen (his soulmate might just have an overactive imagination) – but he made sure to be on guard at all times. He was cautious out in the fields, he was cautious when taking care of fellow soldiers and he was even cautious when he lay in his bunk at night.

Despite these precautions, nothing could have prevented him from running out to save a fallen comrade in the midst of a raid.

He worked as fast as he could to get them to safety. It hadn't been fast enough.

As he lay there, bleeding out on the hot Afghan sand, he wondered if it was all for nothing. If, because of his recklessness and unrivaled loyalty, his soulmate would never get the chance to experience those first thoughts.

But of course not, he thought, waking up days later in a British hospital with a wounded shoulder and a defective leg. The universe was never so lazy.

**···**

When Mike Stamford stopped him in the park, John really couldn't think of anything worse than sitting down for a chat. His leg ached, his hand tingled, and he'd just come from another pointless therapy session. He would've kept walking, really, if Mike hadn't been so persistent.

"Haven't found your soulmate yet, then?" Mike asked over coffee.

John grimaced, pulling down his shirt sleeves instinctively. His soul mark was no longer a hopeful sign of love. It was simply a cruel reminder of the cripple he'd become. He was no longer a military man. He was no longer in Afghanistan. He was no longer a practicing doctor. When it all came down to it, he was utterly useless.

"Not likely," he muttered in response, taking a sip.

"I don't know," Mike shrugged. "Get a flat share or something?"

John sighed, turning his head to face Mike. "C'mon. Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Instead of the reassurance he'd expected, however, Mike simply laughed.

"What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

Finally, something akin to hope presented itself before him. It was a leap, really. The chances that Mike's stranger would want to lodge with him were minimal. But John couldn't help himself.

"Who was the first?"

**···**

John didn't know what he had been expecting. An alcoholic with greasy hair and bad breath? A college student with an addiction to computer games? Instead, he was met with Sherlock Holmes. A man dressed to the nines in a bespoke suit, with perfectly styled hair and eyes which penetrated with just a glance.

He didn't particularly understand why he'd offered his phone to the man. They weren't friends – he didn't owe him anything. But there was a pull in his gut, something akin to obligation, which made him do it. The man thanked him and took the phone from John's grasp.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John froze, breath catching in his throat. His thoughts immediately shot to the mark on his arm and those final three words. Surely it wasn't a mere coincidence. He caught Mike giving him an odd grin from across the room and frowned, struggling to find his voice again. "Sorry?"

The man looked up now, blue – no, grey – eyes staring at him intensely. "Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John couldn't help but wonder: if this man, by chance, _was _his soulmate, what had John's first thought been upon seeing him? He couldn't recall for the life of him.

"Afghanistan. I'm sorry, how did y -"

A meek woman entered the room with coffee in hand, and immediately, the conversation was shut down. Later, as the topic of flat mates suddenly entered the conversation, John couldn't help but be lost in it all until the man was halfway out the door.

John's grip on his cane tightened instinctively. "Is that it? We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

He couldn't believe the audacity. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."

When the man proceeded to dissect him, sharing information about John which was hidden beneath layers of clothing, John knew it had to be him. Army doctor, psychosomatic limp… It was too precise, too _on point _to be anything else. Unless, in some messed up universe, people suddenly possessed x-ray vision.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."

With a wink, Sherlock Holmes departed, leaving John a gaping mess in the middle of the lab.

"Yeah," came Mike's voice. "He's always like that."

John turned to Mike, eyes stricken and desperate. Mike hesitated. "Alright, John?"

At a loss for words, John began to meticulously unbutton the sleeve of his shirt, breath shaky. Mike watched on, silent but confused, until John had completely rolled it up and left his forearm exposed. With another deep inhale, John turned his wrist in Mike's direction.

'_Service haircut. Trained at Bart's. Psychosomatic limp. Military man. Afghanistan or Iraq?'_

"Bloody hell," breathed Mike.

"That," John jabbed at the writing frantically, "cannot be a coincidence."

Mike looked up, offering John a slanted smile. "Well. I suppose you'll be meeting him tomorrow evening, then?"

John swallowed thickly, meeting Mike's stare.

"You bloody bet."


End file.
